‘You’re still here,’ Lance said, looking slightly surprised. ‘Pinned to the spot by Morwenna.’
‘Oh no, I wasn’t thinking, really…’
Her voice tapered away as Carrie and the three other people she vaguely remembered sitting around the table in the café filed into the room.
‘Are you okay?’ Carrie said, rushing over to her. ‘I bought you cake and a warm drink.’
‘Fine. I just went a bit dizzy, that’s all.’
‘Happens to me all the time,’ said a tall slim lady with a sympathetic coral-lipsticked smile and long grey hair tied backin a loose ponytail with a velvet ribbon. She could have been anywhere between late fifties and mid-seventies and looked artfully elegant in her loose putty-coloured dungarees and what looked like a Liberty print shirt in oranges and yellows.
‘Always carry some rescue remedy in my bag if you need it,’ she said softly to Jules, her multi-stranded drop pearl earrings swinging gently as she leaned to touch her briefly on the shoulder. ‘I’m Daphne, by the way.’
‘Thank you, Daphne. That’s very kind.’
‘And I’m John,’ said a man in his fifties, with an immaculately trimmed beard and wearing a statement leather waistcoat. ‘Good to meet you, Jules.’
He sent her a small wave and she raised her hand in return.
‘And last, but not least, this is Iris,’ Lance said, introducing a woman of about her age with an asymmetric haircut and intense eyes.
‘I do hope you’re all right,’ she said. ‘I used to get dizzy when I was pregnant. It’s a horrible feeling.’
‘Oh, I’m not pregnant,’ she protested as a feeling of utter shock threaded through her.
She sat stock still, trying to work out her dates.
‘Just too much rushing around, I expect,’ Carrie added, but Jules looked up to see the question in her eyes.
‘This is going to be a very relaxed day,’ Lance said. ‘Rushing around is not permitted in this place. In fact, all you have to do to begin with is to watch. I’ll give you a short demonstration for a simple bowl and then you can have a go yourselves. I hope today begins a lifelong love affair with pots, but at the very least I hope it makes you happy. Pull up a chair and let’s make some magic.’
Jules lifted Morwenna on to the floor and picked up the hot chocolate which Carrie had brought her.
She watched as Lance made himself comfortable in front of the wheel. Her shoulders twitched as she lifted the mug to herlips. This was ridiculous. How on earth was she going to be able to mould a pot when she couldn’t keep her body steady? She tried to concentrate on what Lance was saying and the delicious sweetness of the chocolate. Soon she became mesmerised by the turn of the wheel, the way Lance drew up the edges of a ball of clay with his fingertips explaining as he worked. She settled back into her seat and listened to his voice. It was deep, smooth and brimming with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm, the Greek word for the god within, divinely inspired. She could see how he would inspire people, even those who probably had little aptitude for throwing a pot. As he made eye contact with them all in turn, she found it difficult to believe that he would ever say a bad word about anyone.
‘First and foremost, I want you to be kind to yourselves. When we start something new it’s best not to rush headlong into it, and keep your expectations… not low exactly, but manageable. If you aim too high from the outset you risk frustration and disappointment. By expecting too much, too soon, we may put ourselves and our projects at risk of being less than they could be if we allowed ourselves to be present and free of judgement. I know that you are only here for a few hours and that you will want to go away with something to be proud of, which I hope will be the case. But I’d like you to think of this as the beginning of a journey. For some of you, you may return to develop your skills, for others, maybe all, this may be the gateway to another creative endeavour. Whatever the outcome this day, what you produce won’t be wasted. Nothing is ever wasted. Every experience has something to teach us, about ourselves and others. Throwing pots is a way of slowing down. That is why my wife and I came here, to reclaim our lives after we both became burnt out by city living. Unfortunately, she became ill soon after we moved to the island, but I knew thatshe wouldn’t want me to give up on our dream, and all creative endeavours begin with a dream.’
As he worked the wheel, something stirred in Jules’s memory – a feeling of being at one with what she was doing. She felt her shoulders drop a little and a loosening in that place at the base of her neck which had become so persistently tight and sore.
‘The speed of the wheel is really important,’ he said. ‘Not too fast and not too slow. Nice and steady. Remember that the clay wants to be formed into something.’
A smooth bowl was taking shape, his hands firm, but gentle. He had very nice hands, Jules thought, with long, slender fingers and tactile thumbs expertly working the clay until he was satisfied with what he had created. He made it look so easy, but Jules knew from past experience that it wasn’t. She thought back to her school days, when elbow deep in clay she had got so frustrated with the medium that wouldn’t do what she wanted, and how she had nearly given up. Then one day she had stopped trying so hard and given herself the freedom to follow what wanted to be born from this unpromising piece of earth, not expecting it to be perfect or to fulfil all her expectations, just allowing it to be something. She remembered the euphoria that followed, and how after that revelation she looked forward to those lessons, which would always be over far too quickly. But that was then and this was now, and so much had happened. She wasn’t the same person. She would never be the same again after what Gavin had done. Lance moved around the room, sitting with each person in turn, talking to them about the best way for them to sit, how to hold the clay, how to use their arms, their wrists, their hands, their fingers. First Daphne, then Iris, then John, then Carrie and next it was to be her turn. She felt the panic rise inside her and that part of her spine at the base of her neck was jammed solid again, a dull ache radiating out across her shoulder blades and up behind her right ear.
‘Jules, you okay?’
She was suddenly aware of him bending over her. He was close, too close. She could smell the fabric conditioner on his creased navy linen shirt, see the hairs glistening gold on his forearms. He pulled up a stool and sat next to her. She sat stock still, unable to move, barely able to breathe. She couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t.
‘There’s absolutely no pressure here,’ he murmured. ‘The only pressure is from yourself.’
She managed the smallest of nods, so small she thought he wouldn’t notice, but he did because he dipped his head in acknowledgement, a loose curl falling forwards on his forehead.
‘It’s clay,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t not touch it. It’s one of the most tactile substances around. May I?’ His hand hovered above hers.
She nodded and he lifted her wrist, placing her palm upon the wedge of clay in front of her. If he was aware of her flinching, he didn’t let on. Instead, he placed his own palm over the back of her hand and held it in place.
‘There,’ he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. ‘That’s not too terrible, is it?’
‘No,’ she whispered, feeling the warmth of his skin and the coolness of the clay and veering between wanting to run as far and fast as she could and staying right there for ever.
